


The Fire That Burns

by PickUpUrPh0ne



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, Jughead Jones Needs a Hug, Missing Scene, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PickUpUrPh0ne/pseuds/PickUpUrPh0ne
Summary: Sometime before 4x17 Jughead Jones needs to take out the trash. Literally he just needs to bring it to the curb. Circumstances make it harder than it ought to be.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	The Fire That Burns

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write about what it might be for Jughead trying to go back life Riverdale having almost been murdered (again). It seemed like there was a lot to unpack from everything in 4x17. Pretty much nothing about Bughead v. Barchie here.
> 
> The title is a track from the album "Maker vs. Now-Again" (2010).

“Jug!” FP shouts as he bangs on the door to the room his son shares with Betty. The Cooper-Joneses had dispersed after finishing a family dinner (sans one Betty Cooper) hours ago and all FP wanted to do was to crawl into bed having barely been home the past few days. Unfortunately even without any active murder cases in the town he was still overwhelmed with paperwork to do from the police station.

“What!” Jughead yells from within the room. He’s not really paying attention to his father, distracted by his laptop.

“You have to take the trash out!” FP shouts again shortly before swinging the door open.

“Okay!” Jughead snaps loudly through the door.

FP expects to see Jughead plugging away on his laptop at the desk and trying to work through the mountain of homework he desperately needs to complete. God knows, the boy needs to put ink to paper like he never has before.

But the pastel painted room is completely dark except for Jughead illuminated by the light from his laptop, sitting in the corner of the room. His homework is scattered around him and looks to be forgotten.

“You were supposed to take out the trash, Jug.” FP is newly frustrated with his son for blowing off his chores and now school work, too.

“Yeah, so?”

“I’ve asked you to do this twice already, son, and Alice has been asking you all week. You can’t keep bribing Jellybean to do your chores for you,” he scolded.

“I’ll do it soon Dad.” Jughead clipped back, still ignoring his father in favor of his laptop. Really he just wishes everyone would get off his case.

“You’ve missed garbage day twice already. You’ll do it now," FP says finally.

Sick of being brushed off and too tired for delicacy, FP brusquely pushes into the room and flips the lights on as he goes over to the corner where Jughead is sitting. FP grabs Jughead by the arm and hauls him up and out of the room before he can fully protest.

“The kid just needed a little momentum” FP chuckles to himself and sends Jughead off with a shove.

“Whatever…” Jughead scoffs quietly on his way to the kitchen downstairs, pretending his Dad didn’t just manhandle him.

It’s not like taking the trash out is difficult or even that it takes a lot of time, Jughead rationalizes. All he needs to do is grab the bag in the kitchen then bring the two bins from behind the garage out to the front curb. If he’s done it once (which he has!) then he’s done it a million times.

If anything he should be feeling grateful that this is all he has on his plate. Looking back this is much less than he could handle on his worst days. This is much more preferable to cleaning up after one of his Dad’s benders or being responsible for JB’s meals. It's not like he's become some spoiled Stonewall brat that is too good to help out. Taking out the trash was not a problem. It was nothing. A joke.

But it still every time he thinks about having to go out for the trash it makes his heart palpitate a little bit.

With the kitchen trash bag in hand Jughead faces down the back door.

“Don’t be stupid,” he admonishes himself. He tries to fortify himself and tugs his beanie down over his ears with his free hand.

Just outside the perfectly clean door is the perfectly manicured backyard. There’s a patio with it’s trusty grill. Beyond the patio is the patch of soft grass that tapers off into a small wooded area. As a child he always thought those trees were the tall and noble kind. Tonight, the moonlight shines through the treetops that are just flowering for the spring. The driveway runs alongside that patio and ends at the garage. There’s nothing intimidating about it, especially since he doesn’t have to worry about Alice’s spying eye, right?

He takes his first steps out into the crisp night air with the trash bag in hand. Suddenly after a few steps he’s almost to the end of the patio and the flood lights snap on suddenly.

“Fuck.” He curses. His heart is hammering in his chest and his breath goes short. _There’s someone behind you_ his brain supplies frantically. _They’re going to hurt you_ it warns.

He whips around and looks back at the quiet house. Despite it’s stillness it does nothing to quell his rising fears. Jughead bites his lip punishingly and takes a deep steadying breath.

“It’s just taking out the fucking trash.” he rebukes himself for his insecurity and pushes himself forward deeper into the yard.

He finally makes it to the back of the garage where the bins reside. His heart is pounding, his breath is short, and he’s fucking angry. Jughead can hear the trees sway in the wind behind him. _You won’t hear them coming for you_ ; he knows this without it needing it to be said. He's lived it.

He grabs the bins aggressively and marches up to the front of the house as quickly as possible. Daring himself not to look behind him. And if they, the Quill and Skull members or the Ghoulies or whoever wants him dead now, have really been waiting behind his house for him to take out the trash then maybe it really is his time. What matters is he isn’t a coward and doesn’t look behind him right now.

By the time Jughead arrives at the curb his slight headache has become a full migraine. It’s throbbing in full force and his breath has gone slightly erratic as he scans the open street. He can’t quite get the bins to line up as perfectly as everyone else on the block has done. His attempt at straightening them out just makes them fall over.

“Of course,” he sneers at nobody in particular, rolling his eyes. His family may have purchased this house on Elm Street (with dirty money) but they would never belong here. He couldn’t even put the bins out correctly. Was it ever glaringly more clear?

After gathering himself for a moment Jughead picks up the bins and smuggly leaves them crooked before rushing back into the house and slamming the door behind him. Getting back into the house brings his anxiety down a notch but does nothing to abate his frustration.

The kicker in all of this, Jughead thinks, is that it's not just taking out the trash that provokes this kind of response in him now. Sometimes this feeling takes a hold in full force in the middle of the day when he's in class or eating at Pop's. Abruptly pulling him from focusing on any mundane task to being on high alert for any hidden threat. He could barely string a sentence together on paper sitting in the open floor plan of his house.

The only place he can get even the smallest semblance of peace is in the bunker. He's not sure exactly why that is. Maybe it's the fact the bunker only has one entrance and exit therefore preventing anyone from sneaking up on him. With the bed and desk facing the entrance he can even begin to focus on school work.

Maybe the easiness he feels in the bunker is because it has become a kind of liminal, in between type space. While he was recovering in the bunker nothing was so final. He hadn't quite yet lost his admission to college, he didn't know why his classmates tried to murder him, and he can't see the sun rise and set as he loses day after day. In the bunker he still had the power and the time to make a difference.

"Trash is done," he shouts to no one in particular.

If he doesn't replace the bag in the kitchen now someone is going to be jumping down his throat about it later. Maybe asking him to do other shit too. In the kitchen Jughead bumps into his Dad.

"Working hard or hardly working, Jug. Am I right?" FP jokes casually. Jughead doesn't respond but focuses on the task at hand.

"Aren't you glad you got it done?" He follows with more authority in his voice, "It's practically the only thing we ask you to do around here, son. I don't see what's so hard about getting it done," he says more seriously.

Jughead wants to bite back with something defensive and sarcastic but instead he looks up from the bin and sees a beer in his Dad's hand and his tired eyes. His anger and frustration deflate into something meaker, something more tired and emotionless. Like autopilot, a glitchy secondhand autopilot system, flipping on.

"Yep," he says knowing his Dad is right. "G'night Dad."

"Going to bed so soon?" FP asks. "Well, good night and sleep tight," he adds earnestly and with a smile.

It really does warm his heart to have his son back in his home. To have his family more stable and whole than it has been in years. There were fewer day to day grievances when Jughead was only visiting from Stonewall occasionally but FP wouldn't trade this opportunity to be a better parent for the world. It says to him he's doing a better job at being a better man. Maybe even close to half the man and father Fred was.

It rings a bit strange to see his nighthawk of a son turn in so early. It wasn't the only strange behavior from his son recently. Jones men have always had a rough go life and that was putting it lightly. Jughead was certainly no exception but FP had seen over and over again that his son was made of stronger stuff. He would pull himself back together soon enough.

Jughead trudges back to his room upstairs with the papers and worksheets weighing down each step. He’s half through his first English lit paper and history paper. He hasn’t even touched the math and biology worksheets. It’s mostly easy material but somehow that makes it even harder to get everything finished.

The question of higher education had become the dichotomy that defined his life, his identity, for years now. He could either fail and fulfill everyone's expectations or succeed and be a better man. With his support system, hard work, luck and just a little bit of talent he thought he could pull it off. Never in his life could he have imagined he could go as far as Yale. And yet he never ever could have imagined he would get kicked out of college even before setting foot on campus.

It was clear now which side of the line he is coming down on in this divide. There really wasn't anything he could have done to change his fate, he scoffs internally. It was cruel for anyone to have even insinuated that he had a real shot at college and a real future. Getting this homework done so he could barely graduate was the shittiest consolation prize yet.

God, he wishes he could spend the night in the bunker. Maybe he could pitch the idea to Betty one more time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little bit hopeful that the show continues to explore Jughead's most recent trauma. I think his ~musical~ fight with Betty could have unpacked this a lot more. I tried to do some of that unpacking here. I don't think his character consciously realizes how much pain he's struggling with right now. 
> 
> I'm fairly proud of this little piece. Drop me a comment or leave kudos please! please tell me if pictured something similar happening with Jughead. I'd love to discuss the this garbage fire of a show <3


End file.
